I
covered myself with a great depth of featherbed, and looked at the
stars, and the shadowy upper world, and went to sleep.
In the morning I washed in the ice-cold water, and was glad to set out.
An icy mist was over the noisy stream, there were a few meagre, shredded
pine-trees. I had breakfast and paid my bill: it was seven francs--more
than I could afford; but that did not matter, once I was out in the air.
The sky was blue and perfect, it was a ringing morning, the village was
very still. I went up the hill till I came to the signpost. I looked
down the direction of the Furka, and thought of my tired Englishman from
Streatham, who would be on his way home. Thank God I need not go home:
never, perhaps. I turned up the track to the left, to the Gothard.
Standing looking round at the mountain-tops, at the village and the
broken castle below me, at the scattered debris of Andermatt on the moor
in the distance, I was jumping in my soul with delight. Should one ever
go down to the lower world?
Then I saw another figure striding along, a youth with knee-breeches and
Alpine hat and braces over his shirt, walking manfully, his coat slung
in his rucksack behind.
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